


missed calls

by Kylaroid



Series: 502 bad gateway [1]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, a little smut, pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylaroid/pseuds/Kylaroid
Summary: "Darlene intends to go to her messages but ends up clicking on the call hub. A small red bubble off in the corner catches her attention among the sea of white and black contact information. Plenty of missed calls. She’s good at that."darlene does her best to cope with loss and listens to some missed calls - thanks to @dom_dipierro on twitter for inspiring this fic !!
Relationships: Darlene Alderson/Dominique DiPierro
Series: 502 bad gateway [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759651
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	missed calls

“ _Fetish for my flaws, and I lust for my scars_ ”

Whiskey courses through her system and mixes with the residue of powder spread across her gums. Blacked out photographs coating the walls blur together as the world seems to spin and pirouette around her. Darlene feels like she’s sinking into the floorboards, further, further yet. Body light, utterly weightless, as if she’s suspended in freefall. She reels—heat flashing feverishly across her body—before she grounds herself against the wall. Her fingers wrap around the neck of a gin bottle—the glass groaning as she drags it across the wooden flooring—bringing it close again. Blown pupils examine the foggy glass—a mere sliver of liquid remaining at the bottom. She already knows that it’s empty—but looks anyways. In childish hopes that a second look will magically make more appear. Irritation boils in her throat and drowns her in irrepressible fury. The pain is still there—clawing inside of her and fueling those self-destructive tendencies. Her hand rears back and she pitches the empty bottle at the closest wall.

It isn’t her best throw, but it is the best she can manage in her present state. It cascades through the air and shatters when it makes contact. Brown opaque shards littering the floor of the already trashed apartment. They catch the dim apartment lights and glisten. In her hazy state, Darlene can make out a psychedelic hue of colors dancing across the reflective surface of the glass—shifting colors as her eyes flicker across the mess. Her attention is forcefully dragged away by the distant buzz of her phone vibrating against the floor. The screen flashes—too bright—her eyes squinting and recoiling from the light. It provokes that throbbing sensation in the back of her head and she squeezes her eyes shut to try to force the pain away. After a few blinks, she adjusts and brings her phone closer so she can make out the message.

It’s from Elliot—he wants something—although she can’t make out exactly _what_ he wants. The dizziness coating her eyes and ache in her skull making the words seem completely foreign. He only seems to want things these days. Another reminder that this isn’t Elliot. Not _her_ Elliot. Not the brother who played with rocks with her when they were children. Not the Elliot that would crawl beside her in bed after a lengthy and loud diatribe from their mother. Not the Elliot that she abandoned when things became too much for her to handle. The guilt swarms in her gut and crawls into her chest with a wave of nausea that she suppresses back down her throat.

She places the phone in her hands and fumbles around with the password. Struggles to connect the lines properly and growing wearier and increasingly frustrated with each disapproving rumble against her palm. After one too many attempts, she manages to get it right—finally gets access. Darlene intends to go to her messages but ends up clicking on the call hub. A small red bubble off in the corner catches her attention among the sea of white and black contact information. Plenty of missed calls. She’s good at that.

One is from Elliot—probably with some kind of demand—or request, perhaps. Details that he needs, for reasons that she is not privy to know. She doesn’t want to listen to it. Not now. Two are from friends—or the closest thing she has to friends right now. Mostly people who can supply her with the drugs and alcohol and empty company she needs to distract herself. Probably telling her about some party happening on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Like hell she’s going anywhere tonight.

Her thumb grazes the screen—names and numbers flying past—some too fast for her to read. Some of them are unknown numbers. Mostly spam calls. Some of them are nostalgic. Painfully so. But Darlene is feeling masochistic tonight. She selects one of the old voicemail messages and brings her phone up to her ear.

_“Hey, it’s me. Where are you? You better not come in halfway through class this time. You know the teacher hates it when you do that. Anyways, I miss you, so you’d better get your ass over here. See you soon—”_

Angela’s voice is soft, riddled with playful irritation. Darlene’s shoulders jolt and shudder as a suppressed sob catches in her throat. She pulls her knees in close—flush against her chest—and presses her forehead to them. Blindly presses on the voicemail to hear it again, but accidentally presses the call back button instead. It rings. Just once. And then goes straight to voicemail.

_“Hey, you’ve reached Angela Moss. I’m not currently available, but please leave your na—”_

Darlene hangs up before she can hear anymore. Before she leaves another incoherent voicemail message pleading for Angela to come home. Lamenting how much she misses her. Curses her for disappearing on her and leaving her alone again. These messages always end the same way. Darlene apologizing profusely for not helping sooner, for not protecting her, for not being there for her. She fell short—just as she did with Elliot—just like she always does. A slurred expletive slips from her lips—followed by a long sniffle. Her fingers curl around the sleeve of her jacket as she uses it to wipe the snot from her nose—not giving two shits about how gross it was. The damn thing is already filthy. She hasn’t done laundry in weeks.

Her head crooks limply to the side—resting on her shoulder—and her gaze flits to a small collection of pills on the floor. She honestly hasn’t the faintest idea what half of them are—not that it matters to her. Her fingers reach out and pluck one off of the ground. Places it on her tongue and hones in on the sensation of it melting against saliva. It fizzes—tingles—and warms her system. And she spins again—like an overwound ballerina in a music box.

Darlene returns to the voicemail box—returns to Angela’s chastising and playful tone. She knows what she’ll say. She’s memorized every word. But hearing it over and over again—it’s almost as if she can feel her. As if, at any moment, she might swing open the apartment door. Fold her arms and ask how she got in with an air of indignation. But she would sigh. She would fetch her a glass of water and sit beside her. But the growing impossibility of that fantasy only makes her chest ache harder and she sobs violently. Unable to control her emotions as they overtake her—as they do almost every night now. When she goes to press on the voicemail again, to replay the message, she misses and selects a different one by accident. The voice that reverberates against her skin makes her blood run cold and her body shudders viscerally.

_“Darlene, it’s DiPierro. You haven’t been back in two nights and my supervisors are starting to ask questions. You know my ass is on the line, right? Whatever this lead is, it had better be good.”_

Darlene reels—a symphony of emotions overwhelming her being. Frustration, sadness, guilt, agony, longing, and she can’t pin any of them down. Memories flash in the back of her mind—of Dom standing in the countryside covered in blood. Those ashen eyes that cycled through emotions so quickly. Fear. Acceptance. Fury. Sadness. Hatred. Eyes that had—just the previous night—looked at her with utter awe and adoration. A soft gaze that eclipsed around her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like she was special. Her gentle awkward laugh and nervous touch—the soft caress of her palm along her back and lips pressed to hers. Moments that Darlene wants to treasure—safeguard. Perhaps the last moments where she felt truly happy. Just for once. But just as quickly as the tender memories come they are washed away. Pulled back like a tide and a wave of reality drags her under.

 _You are a terrible person. Don’t ever convince yourself of anything else_. Dom was right—she usually is. She contemplates calling her, even though she knows that Dom won’t pick up. Contemplates leaving a rambling messy voicemail apologizing for everything that she did. But she can’t do it—perhaps too afraid that Dom will pick up and remind her of how awful she truly is. Or maybe, more simply, because she knows that she is the last person Dom wants to hear from.

The pill is finally starting to kick in—it mixes with the other concoction of drugs and alcohol already mingled in her system. Warms her up again—a feverish glow emanating from her skin. Sheen with a faint layer of sweat. That warmth settles between her thighs—generating a throbbing that demands attention. Against better judgment, her hand snakes under the waistband of her jeans and settles at her clit. Rubs it in slow intentional circles—her breath heavy and coming to her in uneven waves. She whimpers—her mind conjuring images of Dom—beautiful and bare beneath her, calling out her name, muscles clenching around her fingers as she brought her to a beautiful climax. Her brows furrow together and she sinks her teeth into her lower lip—desperately trying to will the images away. But she can’t. They come stronger—irrepressible.

And in her fever haze—she sees Dom—towering over her. No warmth in those stormy eyes—only cold fury. Her lips part—as if to speak, but no words come out. She can’t force them out—those simple words—I’m sorry. A moan inks, slithers out of her throat, and dissipates into the air between her and some illusory Dom. The vision knocks her over with a swift kick to the face—a stinging ache radiating across her cheek from the soles of Dom’s heavy boots. Darlene slumps onto the floor—her back flat against the floorboards. The phone slips from her hand and clatters against the wood—the voicemail starting all over again. Dom’s voice distantly humming from the phone as the illusion of her hovers above her.

It’s just the drugs—Dom can’t be here—none of this is real. But it feels painfully real when the vision straddles her thighs—provoking that throbbing sensation under her fingers. It’s almost overwhelming when she leans over and kisses her. These are just memories. Past sensations—like phantom limbs. Dead and gone, but still felt. It stirs a mixture of fear and arousal when her hands wrap around her throat and squeeze—threatening to collapse in. Blocking all the oxygen from entering her lungs. Darlene whimpers—chest heaving for air—a pithy moan inking its way out from between her lips. This is what she deserves—she thinks. _Live with that. Die with that. Live with that. Die with that_. The words play on loop in her mind as her ears faintly register Dom’s voice playing from her phone. For a moment—she thinks that this might be okay. A fine way to go. Dom’s sturdy hands clasped around her neck, straddling her—depriving her of the last of her oxygen. Her head growing dizzy from asphyxiation and sight fading to a static white from the heat of her climax. Exit in a glow of pleasure—feather-light and dizzy under Dom’s touch. A waterfall of fiery red locks coating her vision—fading to white—and dissipating into darkness.

But that isn’t reality. Darlene wrings out a quick whimpering orgasm—her fingers furiously rubbing to tease out every last morsel of pleasure. She’s not suffocating—she’s not dying—and Dom’s not here. The ceiling whorling above her like a vortex—pulling her in as she comes down off of the high of her climax. She’s panting—heavily, desperately—lungs eager for air despite having plenty of it. And the cries come back. Soft at first before her restraint weakens. Tears clouding out her already blurry vision and spilling down her feverish cheeks. She sobs. She hates herself. She’s abandoned and betrayed and lost everyone she loves—and she’s got nobody to blame for it, but herself. Her knees huddle back, close to her chest, and she tucks her head between her legs. Fingers burrowing through her brown tresses as she wishes for self-destruction and lets out a long wail. Screams into the empty apartment—the cacophonous sound echoing against the walls and reverberating in her ears.

And then it is silent; she is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> title for this fic came from missed calls by earthgang


End file.
